In these pages, I hid truth.

Once an account, now an archive, later someday a trove.

[blunted-pencil]

My child; how long will you eat your heart out here in tears and torment? All wiped from your mind, all thought of food and bed? It's a welcome thing to make love with a woman . . . You don't have long to live now, well I know.

Murderous, doomed, these man-killing hands are fated to torment of eternal glory or ignominious death.

[blunted-pencil]

The day sits heavily on my shoulders. It pools behind my eyes and mutes the world's colors. The music doesn't seem to understand me. I don't understand myself. Tell me, when can I grow out of this?

When you understand the music.

[ham-solo]

[blunted-pencil]

Tonight I drink to the man who doesn’t know I exist. I’ll raise one glass, and one glass only, to the potential of what he could have been to me. Then, I’ll sing and raise three more to the woman who gave me everything and made actuality of my being.

[blunted-pencil]

It is best not to dream before sleep in the dark of night when thoughts are wild and unrelenting.

[blunted-pencil]

Sometimes I look at the people in my life, write their names down on a piece of paper, and then scour the musical world searching for the best song that resonates who they are to me. I often wonder after doing this, what song am I to them?

[frostinhisbones]

Baseball by Jonathan Tasler on Flickr.

[blunted-pencil]

Citizen: Socrates, you are really annoying.

Socrates: Interesting argument. Can you tell me what is 'annoying'?

Citizen: The way you ask all these stupid questions, that's annoying.

Socrates: Would you say that a fly buzzing by your ear is also annoying?

Citizen: Yes, I would say that is annoying.

Socrates: But you define annoyance as asking questions, and a fly doesn't ask questions, so do you really know what annoyance is?

Citizen: I guess I don't know how to explain it.

Socrates: If you don't know what annoyance really is well enough to explain it, how can you be certain, then, that I am annoying?

Citizen: I am going to scream

[lordwanjavi]

Kerry Callen > A Callen Parody

[chubbymon]

These are all gold 😆

[blunted-pencil]

Watch out, Geoff Johns.

[blogthoven]

[blunted-pencil]

“It is cruel, you know, that music should be so beautiful. It has the beauty of loneliness and of pain: of strength and freedom. The beauty of disappointment and never-satisfied love. The cruel beauty of nature, and everlasting beauty of monotony.”

— Benjamin Britten

[ruthgoth-deactivated20160116]

[mrhipp]

We’re home.

[blunted-pencil]

After I finished writing I looked at the six pages of my soul that spilled onto the paper and I laughed. I was so filled with joy to know that you would know me better that I could not contain that joy.

[blunted-pencil]

Forced recollection

I am sitting on a white five gallon bucket with my back resting against the barn door. I am facing west. I am wearing the heavy brown Carhartt jacket my mother bought me as a present last Christmas, as well as dark work jeans, tall boots, and a blue knit cap that covers my ears. Spring has feigned a lasting appearance for days, but another exhausting three inches of snow fell last night to cover the ground and the trees for the final reminder of winter’s suffocating power over the grass and branches. There is a .22 Remington bolt-action rifle laid over my knees with the safety on but ready to be fired in case of the fox that will in two days claim the life of a goose still brooding over her unhatched goslings. I do not want to kill the fox. I want to see the fox, raise the rifle, rest the ironsight on my target, release the safety, and never pull the trigger. I do not want to kill this specter. I want to let him hunt. I will give him his time before the poultry portal is closed up for the night and latched shut against his hunger. The sun is setting beneath the treetops and I am drifting to thoughts of summer heat and dry winds. I do not want to kill the fox.

[blunted-pencil]

I see

...the shape of the not-so-far hill to the north of my kitchen window. The tall trees slope down the hill of my property to the right from where I sit while the slope of the gray-shaded hill rises from left to right. Offset from each other by a mile or two, these shapes sit in the same cloud and fog of an early spring evening that was not two days ago warm and sunny, but is now cold and dreary. December 17th is how to describe today: the air, the ground, and the sky all lead one to think of more storms to come. The earth reminds me not to forget winter and bask in summer warmth too early, as mother’s temper and temptation to toss a tempest my way could easily turn against me at any moment. But for now my safety lies well secured behind this window with changing shapes and the dimming light while a cat named King vibrates on my leg in mirthful slumber.

[blunted-pencil]

Day 4

So, as anticipated, I missed a day of posting. I’m not surprised at myself, I usually fall into writing kicks and then go radio silent for a few days afterwards, blame the flighty muse. Anyways, things have gone well, here. The fire in the hearth is warm, the creatures are kind as I am kind to them, and the weather seems to improve on a daily basis. A friend came over and visited last night. When that firend walked into the house, the first thing they did was comment on the smell. I remember the first time I caught the sweet earthy scent of manure, hay, and a well-lived house. I love it. While the skies may be bleak this afternoon, I am still going to go on a hike before the evening milking, it feels like a crime to be inside as much as I have been. Anyways, the animals are well, the cows are milking generously, so nothing crazy to report on that end. I’ve gotten lots of good cleaning done, hoping to have my most effective day tomorrow when I clean out the mobile chicken coop. I’ll likely post later today about the afternoon and how it goes, fingers crosses that I actually do it!

[doglets-deactivated20140515]

well son, a blog is formed when your loneliness and your narcissism fall in love with each other